The United Kingdom Is?
by EspeonSilverfire2
Summary: "Arthur, they've… they've… they've begun the meeting…" A lethal virus broke out in Britain and obliterated the country. Presented with the threat of global extinction, serious action has been taken. Now America is there for England at the end. Oneshot.


**A/N- Hi everyone! Uh, this is another Hetalia oneshot which I've written, but since it doesn't fall into the same categories as the ones in my oneshot collection 'England's Spying', I've decided to post it separately (I like to group the others together for neatness and so they're easier to find. And they all fit into the same canon etc.). This one is a tragedy, and a sad piece, so if you don't want to risk crying turn back now. I myself cried whilst writing it.**

**This piece was thought of when I wondered what it'd be like if one of the countries was dying. And I supposed I can say it's loosely inspired by 28 Days Later, which I saw for the first time a few days ago. I was kind of disappointed, but I guess the idea of an infection practically obliterating the country stuck with me.**

**Warnings- character death and some very mild implied USUK/UKUS or simply platonic affection (take your pick).**

...

"_Are we all assembled?" the suited man surveyed the room, a grim look on his face. Several jerky, forced nods were the response, scattered around the table. One man, a fairly young tanned gentleman in his early thirties, swallowed, breath hitching around the lump in his throat._

_The speaker dipped his head in return and coughed, straightening his papers on the wooden surface. His cough was by no means loud, but it seemed like the roar of an engine as it echoed around the deathly silent room._

"_Very well then. We shall begin."_

The blond's hand quivered as it was stretched out, his light skin somehow seeming even paler under the artificial lighting within the house. It hurt to even move as little as this, but he couldn't help admiring it even so. It was truly miraculous how intricately put together it all was, supreme craftsmanship. He flexed his slim digits a couple of times, eyes drinking in the sight of his skin rippling over the joints as they were pulled back and forth. Every bone was highlighted for him to see, but that saddened him somewhat. He didn't want to be in this malnourished condition, where even his ribs would be visible if one were to remove his shirt. And then, even if one didn't, the faintest outlines of them were still discernible anyway amongst the folds and creases of his rumpled clothes.

He leaned his head back against the cushion which he had been using to prop it up previously, light hair flopping across it, stray strands creating an almost Picasso-esque pattern over the fabric. His breath caught as he did so, the pain of movement almost too much to bear. His hand fell limp to his side in an instant, causing him to wince in pain at the sudden motion, although this in itself only sufficed to make his discomfort even worse. When did he become like this, he wondered, as his breath came out in shallow pants, chest struggling for more air and yet trying to avoid moving at the same time. When did such a great nation fall?

His eyelids fluttered closed as he lost the strength to keep them open. He had sustained so many injuries in his lifetime, and yet none of them had reduced him to this. None of them had ever truly rendered him at Death's door before. None until now. He wondered just how long he had left. Would he live to see another day? Somehow, he suspected not. Part of him wondered if the meeting had begun yet. He already knew what the outcome would be…

His heart ached in his chest at the thought. The pain of his organ was even greater than the pain of moving, or the constant pain he now suffered all the time. It was an unbearable twisting. A wrenching, as if someone had thrust their fist through his skin and were yanking out his insides. A small cry of pain escaped his lips, and a few tears prickled in the corners of his eyes. Would he ever get to see his friends again? To some of them he was indifferent, and there were some he could live without, but…

"Alfred…"

The name fell from his lips like a plea. His tongue caressed over his teeth as he spoke as if he could caress the one who bore the name himself. His most treasured work. His former colony. His America…

"Arthur?"

The sound tore him from his heartbroken reverie. His eyelids snapped open and his head whipped around, earning a hiss of pain in the process. Bright green eyes met brilliant blue, but were only exciteful for the briefest of moments, before his mind registered the tears shimmering in the other's eyes, and the look of absolute crushing despair and anguish on the man's face.

"America… what's wrong?" he forced the words out, desperate for some kind of explanation.

"Arthur, they've… they've…" the American struggled to make the words leave his mouth. His hand tightened around the disposable cup of cola he held. "They've begun the meeting…"

England's eyes widened, quivering in shock. He hadn't expected this so soon. But then, he had lost track of all time in this place. "A-already?"

America nodded, but it was stiff and forced. Ever so slowly, he stepped across the room and knelt beside his old guardian, placing his drink on the floor next to them. The Englishman's eyes half closed as he relaxed somewhat, partially due to the other blond's presence, but also due in part to his acceptance of the news. He had long ago resigned himself to this fate.

"It seems I don't have long left then…" he breathed, turning his eyes to stare off into the distance towards the mantelpiece. On it, a clock ticked away his last minutes.

"Don't say things like that!" America protested, reaching out and clutching the Brit's hand. He squeezed it so tightly that England thought it would pop, but his bones withstood the strain. A couple of tears trickled down the American's cheeks. He looked almost hysterical. "You're not going to die! I won't let them!"

"America-" Arthur cut him off, reaching around with his other arm, despite the pain, to cup his hand around the man's cheek. "It's alright. There's nothing you can do. I understand that. The hero can't always save everyone…"

More tears poured down the American's cheeks and his blue eyes stung from the salt. His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose as he leaned forward, somehow gripping England's hand even tighter.

"Don't leave me-" he pleaded, voice low and cracking. He was almost rendered mute with anguish. It tore even more into the Englishman's chest to see him like this. Even though he had resigned himself to this fate, he found his resolve beginning to waver as America broke down by his side.

"I didn't know you cared for me so much," he joked, a pathetic half-smile on his face. Even at the end, he was still going to tease the American. It was the story of his and the Yank's lives. They would dance around each other, teasing, squabbling, bickering, but deep down, each truly cared for the other.

Alfred cracked a small smile through his tears. "Only you could say something like that now."

England chuckled, but was cut off by a chime from the mantelpiece. Tilting his head, he blinked as his eyes struggled to focus. With some effort, he made out the time on the clock. "Midnight," he whispered.

America swallowed. His eyes were afraid. He honestly didn't know how long England had left. Any second now, they could give the order…

"How long has it been now?" the Englishman croaked, breaking Alfred from his worrying. The American blinked in surprise. The question had taken him off-guard.

"Huh? W-what do you mean?"

"How long has it been," the sickly blond asked, "Since this whole mess began?"

America thought about that for a moment, eyes surveying his ally's stricken form. He was curled up on the sofa, head resting on a small mountain of cushions which the other countries had placed there for him, a blanket half-covering his legs. His skin was deathly pale and clung tightly to his bones, each and every one of which was visible. A thin sheen of sweat covered him, and he knew he was in serious pain. He had never in all his long years of life seen the former pirate, former punk and the man he considered to have once been the strongest of all nations so… powerless.

"H-half a year," he replied, throat dry and painful. "Six months…"

England chuckled grimly. "Six months, eh? Not a long time for a strong country such as me to go down. I should be ashamed…"

"Don't talk like that," the American berated him. He couldn't bear it when the Englishman was so blasé about his own demise. "You'll get better. Just you wait and see. I-I'll help you myself! We'll get rid of this infection, and then I can send some people from my country, and we'll rebuild your population, and-"

"No, America," England once again cut him off. "You have to understand. This is it for me. That virus has wiped out my country in six months. There's no-one left. It's a miracle it was contained in the other countries. Especially France. The airports are closed. The harbours and ports are shut off and the Channel tunnel is barricaded up. My land is in quarantine, and it will be for a long time, until the world is sure that the infection is dead and will harm no-one ever again. And to do that, then I… I-"

"You have to die…" America breathed. England nodded, sadly.

"All of Britain has been infected. Every last person is either stricken or a carrier. In order to get rid of this plague, then the United Kingdom must be… wiped out." His voice faltered on the last words, breath catching in his throat. He lay still for a few minutes, breathing softly, as he felt tears forming in his eyes. It wasn't just himself that he was crying for, it was every person in his country. Every single citizen of the United Kingdom who had to give up their lives to rid the world of this damned infection. It wasn't fair. Why did they all have to die? Why? Was this what it felt like for a nation to breathe their last? To have not just yourself, but every single one of your citizens go with you? A long, drawn out execution…

America slid his arms around the man's torso, gently pulling him into a hug. With one hand he gently tugged the blanket which had been slipping down off his legs back over his lower body, covering and warming him. He rested his head against the top of the Brit's, inhaling deeply and engulfing himself in the country's scent. It was the smell of fresh rain upon grass. "What do you know?" he muttered quietly into the nation's soft hair. "Looks like you get to be the hero…"

England let out a quiet chuckle which quickly became a racking cough. His whole body shook in the American's arms. The latter waited patiently until the man's coughs had died down. After another long few moments, the Englishman hesitantly spoke.

"Listen to me, America, there's something… something I need… to tell… you…"

Alfred blinked in surprise. "Wh-what is it?"

_The room's occupants placed their papers down on the table._

Arthur coiled his fingers around his fellow nation's t-shirt, gripping it tightly. "I- I wanted to…"

"_It's decided then."_

"…to thank you. For being here for me, at the end…"

"_The United Kingdom-"_

"Arthur…"

"_-Of Great Britain and Northern Ireland-"_

"And I wanted to say that… I have never hated you, America. In truth, actually I-"

"_-is no more."_

England's hand fell limp.

**The End.**


End file.
